


Where the bees are

by SlytherinsDragon



Series: Holmescest Works [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bees, Blow Jobs, Dogs, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Mycroft Feels, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Romance, Sussex, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 10:48:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21207275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: After Sherrinford, Mycroft leaves London. When Sherlock finds out, he goes to search for him.





	Where the bees are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).

> The urge to write Mylock one-shots is irresistible! So here's another one from me.

“What do you mean that my brother no longer works here?” Sherlock blinks at Anthea, unable to keep the astonishment out of his voice.

“Sherlock…” Anthea sighs deeply; there is a sadness in her eyes. “He quit. After Sherrinford. A week after he was absolutely sure that it would be impossible for your wayward sibling to escape her imprisonment.”

“Damn…” Sherlock’s fingers itch for a cigarette that he will never smoke. Some brother he is. Not even knowing that the British government had voluntarily vacated his post. “How come I never knew about it? Why did he never tell me?” His words falter; it is as if the world had just tilted on its axis.

In retrospect – it should have been obvious. After that lovely trip to Sherrinford, Sherlock had noticed that there were less tails. No more bugs. No more cases critical for the well-being of Great Britain. And eventually, no surveillance at all. He had thought that it was because big brother had finally trusted him to look after himself – but it appears that he is mistaken. 

In the past, Sherlock had always complained bitterly about Mycroft’s heavy-handed and privacy-violating methods to ensure his well-being, but now he simply feels… neglected. Maybe even uncared for.

“He didn’t want you to know. Sherlock. He felt very guilty about everything. Felt that your life would have been better off without him.”

“So. He disappeared?” Sherlock deduces. Mycroft no longer lives in his London home either – Sherlock had broken into it the week before with the old codes. The housekeeper still comes by now and then to keep it shipshape, but it is obvious that no one has lived in it for quite some time now. A year. Or more. Suddenly an icy fear grips at his heart. “He didn’t…” He finds himself unable to finish his sentence. It is unfathomable that big brother could be gone from this world.

“No.” Anthea shakes her head. “He did not. Although… I wouldn’t be surprised if he had considered it. Not that he ever told me. You should have seen him then. He looked like hell before he had resigned.”

“So then. Where did he go?” Sherlock asks, sliding further back in the visitor’s chair. 

“He didn’t mention anything specific, except that he did say once that he plans to go ‘where the bees are’. It means nothing at all to me, I am afraid.” Anthea gives Sherlock an apologetic look.

“Oh, but of course.” Sherlock taps his fingers against the surface of the desk. He knows where his brother had gone. To the cottage where they had spent some of the happier years of their childhood. Where one of their eccentric uncles – not Uncle Rudy – had kept beehives and an extravagant garden. “Sussex!” He bolts up from the chair. “I shall go find him.”

“Don’t antagonize him, Sherlock.” Anthea warns pleadingly.

“I won’t.” Sherlock is already wrapping his scarf back around his neck. Remembering that it had been Anthea who had graciously agreed to talk to him when she didn't have to, he then turns back around to face her. “Thank you.” He says, genuinely – having the instinctive feeling that he will probably never see her again. 

Anthea offers him a small smile. “I hope you find him.”

***

Life after Sherrinford is slower. John had decided to put greater stock into raising Rosie, so he seldom ever went on cases with Sherlock now. And roughly a year later, John had started dating again, searching for the perfect Mummy for his young daughter – who likes to call Sherlock, Sh’ock, much to the infinite amusement of his flatmate and everyone else in the vicinity. The current girl – a blonde veterinarian with Swedish roots who goes by the name of Emily – holds promise to become the second and hopefully more successful Mrs. Watson someday. She adores Rosie with the added boring bonus of harbouring no murderous tendencies.

Even the criminal elements in London appeared to be duller – but Sherlock cannot rule out the hypothesis that these once all-consuming cases of his have now lost their lustre. He is getting older; a good exhilarating chase in the wee hours of the night leaves him with aches and pains that do not abate for days afterward. Not to mention that his extensive collection of scars have started to ache whenever the atmospheric pressure shifts. Just like an old man – he thinks ruefully. And in rainy England, that means far too frequently for his tastes. 

After a two-hour train ride through the English countryside, Sherlock alights and strides out of the station. Despite the blustery winds of autumn, he elects to walk. It would help clear his mind which had been troubled when he had discovered that things are strange with big brother. It had all started two weeks ago when he had sent a silly text to Mycroft – inquiring about the state of the British government along with a quip about not needing his services for any cases integral for the security of the country in the last two years. It had bounced back as undeliverable. That had never happened before. And now, he feels guilt. A heavy crushing guilt. For not following up with Lestrade after he had sent him to check up on his brother. For sending Lestrade to Mycroft’s in the first place to do his dirty work. For not knowing that the events of Sherrinford had thrown his brother – his constantly steady, unflappable and reliable big brother – so off-kilter that he had quit his unique job that he had spent years creating. And with the same stroke, cleaved himself completely from Sherlock’s life. 

It is peaceful here. In the lush hills near the cliffs overlooking the English Channel. His feet tread upon an old beaten path, occasionally kicking at a pebble or rock. There is the rustle of the wind, the faint crash of the sea against the shore in the background and the calls of terns flying seaward. It is cold. Sherlock can feel his joints ache, and despite his usual armour, the Belstaff – he is shivering. 

Anthea’s words keep replaying in his head. Big brother had thought that Sherlock would be better off without him. Is that true? No, it cannot be. Mycroft had been a constant presence in Sherlock’s life – dragging him out of trouble, interrogating flatmates, admonishing him to do better… He had taken his brother for granted. A fact of his existence. And what did Mycroft ever get in return? Insults, pranks and bratty disrespectful behaviour. His lips quirk into a wan smile as he thinks about that glorious day in Buckingham Palace – in nothing but a bedsheet. Wielding his nakedness as a weapon as Irene Adler had done back in the old days. The smile disappears abruptly off Sherlock’s face. Recklessness and idiocy, a false sense of invincibility – that’s what it all came down to at the end. 

Does his brother even want to see him? Or is he all too glad to have finally washed his hands off him? And somehow, that fills Sherlock with dread. Has the one person who had never given up on him finally done so? 

The cottages finally come into view – each a unique construction on their own. Wood-based or brick-based. Well worn down by the salty sea air. Some even have vegetation climbing up or down the walls. Others had well-kept gardens while others had been left to grow wild. Sherlock has not been here in this idyllic spot in decades. He continues down the beaten path, taking longer strides – heading towards a relatively isolated cottage near a cliff – surrounded by a bountiful variety of flora arranged in a mess. On closer inspection – an artful mess. Deliberately planted vegetation amongst the natives. The ancient bricks in this cottage bear an almost rundown air, but not quite. Raising his leather-clad knuckles, Sherlock raps thrice on the chipped and peeling blue door. It is unbelievable that Mycroft would be here, out of all the places in the world. Should he not be luxuriating at some swanky penthouse enjoying fine whiskey pricier than Sherlock’s average monthly income by the glass? 

But then again, how well does he really know his brother?

The sound of footsteps from within fill Sherlock with trepidation. There is a click and the door swings open, revealing a homely looking brown-haired woman attired in an apron in her middle age; a housekeeper.

“Is Mycroft in?” Sherlock finds himself asking.

She gives a brief shake of her head, before inquiring, “Who are you?”

“His brother.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you. I am Mrs. Moran. I live nearby, but I keep house for your brother a few times a week. Would you like to come in?” There is a cheery air about her that Sherlock rather likes. It is good to know that there is someone here that seems to care about Mycroft’s welfare.

“Could you tell me where he could have gone?” The offer is tempting especially with the promising aromas of baking that could possibly rival Mrs. Hudson’s wafting into the cold air from within, but Sherlock has a need to see his brother in the flesh. To see that he is hale and healthy. 

“He probably went for a ramble down to the shore below the cliffs. To the sea.” Mrs. Moran glances briefly at another path – which is essentially trampled down vegetation – heading seawards.

“I will go find him then.” Sherlock gives her a final nod before setting off once more, pulling his Belstaff tighter around his thin frame. 

***

He hardly recognizes Mycroft when he first lays his eyes upon him. There is a dog leaping into the shallow waves of the sea chasing after a bright pink frisbee that his brother had just thrown. A collie. Sable-furred. Barely out of puppyhood. A beautiful creature. Barking cheerfully as the waves gently caress the shore and recede back. Gone are the usual three-piece suits – the former ‘minor government official’ is attired in a simple windbreaker – charcoal, a pair of worn and faded jeans, runners and a pair of gloves. His brother is leaner than he had ever been, but there is a healthy colour to his cheeks. 

Mycroft freezes when he finally catches sight of Sherlock watching him, adjacent to the rocky cliffs that tower high above them. The collie, having had retrieved her toy, walks back from the waters and sits patiently on her hunches next to his brother on the fine white sand. Her ever-moving tail stirs up a miniature dust cloud. There is a look of disbelief in Mycroft’s blue irises. They both look and look, thirstily taking stock of the changes that time had wrought upon their persons since Sherrinford; both usually eloquent and articulate men are unsure about what to say and how to say it.

“Sherlock…” Ever the big brother, Mycroft breaks the silence for them both. 

“Mycroft…” His brother’s name feels strange on his tongue, having gone unused for so long. “What are you doing here?” The question escapes from Sherlock’s mouth.

“I think the real question is why are you here, Sherlock?” His brother’s eyes are unreadable and filled with something unfathomable. The collie scrutinizes Sherlock warily.

“To find you, brother.”

“Well, you found me. And now?”

Sherlock’s shoulders slump a little before he shrugs. “To be honest… I have no idea.” He then adds sheepishly, “I should apologize. I didn’t realize that Sherrinford…”

“Took such a toll on me? Precipitated a mid-life crisis?” There is a self-deprecating chuckle that emits from Mycroft. The tone is as flippant as it gets from big brother; an attempt to break the ice. However, it just makes Sherlock feel even guiltier and sadder. 

“Yes… that.” Sherlock agrees, shivering violently once more when another mighty gust of wind from the sea blows past them. 

“You are shivering. Little brother – you are cold! Let’s go back home, Sadie.” Mycroft grabs the frisbee from the collie’s mouth before clipping a leash onto her collar.

***

In front of a roaring fireplace that Mycroft had lit as soon as they had gotten back to the cottage, Sherlock is sitting on a plush armchair, wrapped tightly in a flower-patterned quilt provided by the efficient Mrs. Moran. His brother had draped it over him, letting his hand linger on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock is nursing a cup of hot chocolate. Next to his left hand on the adjacent side table is a plate of freshly baked Bakewell tarts, filled with jammy goodness. Sadie is curled up on the soft mat near Sherlock’s feet, crunching on a jerky treat. Overall, it is cozy.

“Feeling better?” Mycroft inquires after reentering the living room from the kitchen. He sits down in another armchair. A mug of tea – Darjeeling – is held in his right hand. 

“Much.” Sherlock nibbles on a tart. “Thank you, brother.” He adds, secretly amused at the surprise that flickers in Mycroft’s irises at such simple words that cost Sherlock barely anything to say. 

“Anytime. My pleasure.” Mycroft replies, sounding pleased. 

***

“Are you staying for dinner, little brother?” Mycroft asks much later.

“If I stay for dinner, it would be too late to catch the train… and I didn’t bring…”

“Brother – you can also stay for the night. I have some of your clothes somewhere…”

“Would I be intruding?” Sherlock asks cautiously, remembering Anthea’s plea about not bothering his brother. 

“Never.” Mycroft replies frankly. “You were never a bother, brother mine.” The soft look his brother gives startles him. 

A warm fuzzy feeling fills Sherlock – warming him up in ways that the fire, hot chocolate and baked goods had failed to do so. It has something to do with the idea that his brother still kept some of Sherlock’s things around, in anticipation that Sherlock may need them someday. And then – he wonders – is it really Sherrinford that drove Mycroft away from London? 

“You can stay for as long as you want.” Mycroft continues. “Unless… you are expected elsewhere?” The words are said with the utmost caution.

Sherlock shakes his head in disbelief. It is easy to deduce that his brother believes that he is in a relationship with someone. What an absurd thought! Who the hell could put up and keep up with him, anyways? “No, I am not expected anywhere by anyone. I just wanted to ask – are you keeping bees, brother?”

Laughing at the abrupt change in topic, Mycroft replies, “Yes – I have three hives. Langstroths. They are out in the back garden. I can show you them later. It is certainly a fascinating hobby.”

“Going from manipulating people to bees, brother?” Sherlock permits himself a teasing grin.

“Certainly the bees are far more organized and sophisticated. And smarter as a collective than humankind ever will be – little brother. Come, let’s go have dinner. There is an excellent chicken pot pie that my housekeeper had left for the night which deserves our attention. And I can always use some help to finish it.”

***

“So… how is everyone back in London?” Mycroft asks after taking a forkful of pie. 

“Surely you don’t care about that?” Sherlock is amused. But he humours his brother anyways. “Mrs. Hudson is doing okay, although she had a bad case of community-acquired-pneumonia last January. Rosie is growing like a weed. John is seeing a veterinarian; blonde, nice, a little dull but she loves Rosie. Molly is getting married –” At the narrowing of Mycroft’s eyes, Sherlock hastily adds, “Not to me, but to someone named Tristan or Trevor, I don’t quite remember.” 

“Dr. Watson is seeing someone else?” His brother sounds absolutely flummoxed.

“Why are you so surprised by that, brother? You do recall that there was a Mrs. Watson a few years prior.” 

Mycroft eyes shift downwards toward where Sherlock’s old bullet wound lies. The expression on his face could be best described as murderous. However, his words are quiet, more introspective. “I thought… that Dr. Watson and you would finally get together at the end…”

“Oh. And that’s why – you offered to die at Sherrinford…” Sherlock is shocked at this revelation. “You thought that we would get together eventually and play the happy family. No, brother – that would have never happened... And how – how could I ever fire at you, Mycroft? I could never.” The words towards the end come out practically choked. An unidentifiable emotion fills him. “Never…” He breathes. 

“I was the one who brought upon this entire disaster with my own arrogance, brother mine. Everything that happened was completely preventable. It would have been right for me to die there. I was ready then.”

The way Mycroft speaks perturbs Sherlock greatly.

“But I wasn’t ready to lose my big brother.” Sherlock finds himself blinking rapidly as he voices the truth. No, he will not cry. Not here. “I don’t think I will ever be. And, I thought over the past few weeks that you could have finally gotten sick and tired of dealing with your deranged younger siblings and given me up for good, along with your job.” 

“Sherlock…” Dismay is writ across Mycroft’s face. “That was never my intention. Towards the end, I thought that my meddling had always brought you more grief than good, little brother. And, I knew at the end of Sherrinford that you could look after yourself. You and the good doctor always were a little too close for a platonic relationship…”

Sherlock grimaces, there are still places on his body that bother him to this day thanks to John. “He is a bit too volatile for me to be in a relationship with. I am not interested in being a potential case for domestic abuse.” 

“I sincerely hope not. You deserve better. The best, actually.”

“I know. Lestrade gave me the lecture after I refused to press charges.” Sherlock sighs. That is still a sore spot between himself and John – along with all that other ugly history between them – things will never go back to how easy they were at the beginning. 

It strikes him then. The jealousy. The jumping to conclusions about himself and John. Leaving London. Willing to die for Sherlock to have his happiness with John. That meaningful sequence of looks between them back in that horrible room at Sherrinford. As improbable as it seemed, it appears that Sherlock has finally stumbled upon the truth. “Mycroft…” 

There is a resigned air about his brother. 

Mycroft knows that he knows. 

Earnestly, his brother says, “I might as well come clean. I thought that it was perhaps inevitable that Dr. Watson and you would finally get together. Sherrinford almost broke me, but knowing that you and the doctor were going to get your happy ending was too much for me to bear… He doesn’t deserve you. Sherlock…” Mycroft hesitates. 

His brother’s eyes are shining with sentiment. Completely unbrotherly. Completely inappropriate. Illegal. But Sherlock, as overwhelming as this experience has been, is utterly unfazed. In fact, he might even welcome it. He lets his eyes roam, taking in his brother, seeing him as a _ man _for the first time in his life. Who, despite all the jokes that Sherlock had made at his expense about his appearance over the years, is remarkably handsome. The sea air, rambles about the seashore and the hills of Sussex and Sadie have made him fitter and healthier than he had ever been back in London. 

The tension between them is so taut that it could be cut with a knife. 

God. 

Sherlock realizes only now. 

He wants. 

Oh, how he wants.

_ I want you… Mycroft. _

His brother stands up after having accurately read the arousal in Sherlock’s pupils and silently extends an arm in invitation. Sherlock reaches for the arm and gets onto his feet without any hesitation, despite being nowhere close to having finished with his dinner – he knows that there will be a dessert of a different sort later. 

***

There are kisses. Lips crashing together. Franticly. Sloppily. With and without tongue. Sherlock isn’t quite sure who initiated them when they had reached the landing of the second floor. But it doesn’t really matter. He has gently pushed Mycroft against one of the whitewashed walls in the unlit hallway; his hands caressing the fur of Mycroft’s hairy chest after having clumsily undone the top few buttons of his crisp striped shirt; his fingers teasing the dark nipples buried beneath the hair while their tongues are entwined in a most electrifying manner, sending the most pleasant tingles down Sherlock’s spine and cock.

“Bed.” Mycroft gasps when their lips finally separate. 

Along the way, clothes are shed, walls are stumbled into and the door to the bedroom is impatiently kicked open by his big brother. Shoes and socks are pulled off before they both tumble onto the bedsheets – alternating between being on top and on bottom in a brief tussle for dominance between them. Sherlock surrenders willingly, where he is rewarded with a lip-bruising kiss. His brother’s mouth travels inferiorly, caressing, licking and nibbling at the sensitive skin of his neck, before sucking a possessive bruise near his left clavicle. 

“You are so gorgeous. My beautiful creature. My lovely… darling.” Mycroft whispers reverently into his ear, trying out the different terms of endearment that have been bottled up within him for too long while carefully scrutinizing Sherlock’s reactions to them. “My dearest… Too much?” 

“Is it all true, Mycroft?” Sherlock is not used to his brother looking so insecure. 

“God. Of course. For so long.” 

A lump forms in Sherlock’s throat when his eyes catch the intensity blazing through his brother’s eyes. So, this is what it feels like to be loved. Loved in an unconditional manner. For his brother had never given him up, even when he had hit the lowest of lows. He reaches upwards with his dominant hand and gently touches Mycroft’s cheek. “Then you can use it all. I don’t mind, brother _ mine_.”

Mycroft shudders slightly upon hearing this possessive inflection. Sherlock’s breath hitches when his brother lightly pinches one of his tight pink nipples, before nibbling and sucking on both of them in turn – drawing wanton little noises from Sherlock. Soft lips kiss their way down Sherlock’s sternum, while hands knead at his gluteus maximi. When a hand slips beneath his buttocks and a finger probes tentatively at that virginal _ forbidden _ flesh, Mycroft looks up, his impossibly tender gaze nonverbally asking.

“Take me.” Sherlock willingly flips over to his front, giving Mycroft the access he needs. “I want it. I want you. Brother… please.” He wiggles his bum in what he hoped was an enticing manner. “Don’t make me beg twice, Myc.” 

The first intrusion of a lube-slicked finger is an odd sensation, but when something fleshy, moist and capable of exerting the most decadent amount of pressure against the dense nerve-laden walls of his anus breaches him – Sherlock has never been more sure that it is possible to die from an overload of pleasure. The sounds that escape from his throat sound obscene and needy to his own ears, while his body is torn between wanting to thrust his arse closer to his brother’s face or to rut against the bed to fulfill his need for more. There is something so deliciously dirty about this; having the ex-British government lick at his hole – rimming being the colloquial term. When the tongue and finger(s) finally retreat, Sherlock whines softly – feeling bereft. Gentle pressure applied to his hips guide him to flip back onto his back while a pillow gets shoved underneath his pelvis.

His brother looks as if to ask if this is what he really wants. Whatever he sees in Sherlock’s face must have been satisfactory, for a tip of a lubed cock dripping with precum – a rather sizable one – brushes around the periphery of that most intimate space. A tantalizing torment. Fuck. A desperate noise escapes from him before Mycroft finally presses inward. It inevitably burns, but never has pain ever felt so… good. So intimate. Perfect. His brother stops, giving Sherlock a chance to grow accustomed to this penetration. Despite the darkness of the room – for neither in their haste for the bed had bothered to switch on any of the lights – the moonlight is enough to see the blues of Mycroft’s eyes. 

When they had been children, Sherlock had always been able to read his brother, but when they had grown apart – Mycroft had seemed like such a stranger to him when he had entered his twenties; cold, icy and ready to take over the world. His non-verbal cues had become a foreign language to Sherlock. But now, it seems that he has regained the ability to decipher his brother again. The eyes, which had always looked so aloof and cold during their days in London, now betray an emotion as deep and intense as the radiance of the sun with the barest shimmer of worry that he might be hurting Sherlock. 

“Damn, Myc – more!” Sherlock demands moments later, trying to thrust his hips upwards against the palms of his brother holding him down while using his bent over legs to push down firmly on Mycroft’s back. “You won’t break me, I swear.”

And his brother acquiesces, and they both groan in tandem when the cock bottoms out. Mycroft leans over to press gentle kisses on Sherlock’s lips before his roving tongue slips in to plunder and map his mouth in its entirety. Setting a comfortable tempo, Mycroft rocks into Sherlock so deliciously with each thrust. The pain has dissipated at this point, replaced by something indescribable. Sherlock reaches up to caress and cup Mycroft’s slightly-stubbly jaw with both his hands. If only this feeling could last forever; this gentle climb towards the peak – the edge of all that is meaningful in this universe.

There is only the creaking of the sound bed, the increasingly laboured breathing and the crescendoing noises of desperation. They don’t break eye-contact with each other, except for when it is necessary to blink. Eventually, one of Sherlock’s hands drifts downwards towards his own neglected cock, and he strokes at the same rate and rhythm as he is getting fucked. “I am so close.” He breathes.

“God… you feel so good.” Mycroft’s warm breath tickles Sherlock’s face as he picks up the pace, his cock brushing so agonizingly against Sherlock’s prostate with almost every thrust. “My darling.”

And just as Sherlock spills, his body awash with all that intoxicating neurochemistry – oxytocin, dopamine, amongst others – Mycroft’s own rhythm stutters and shatters; his prick constricted by the involuntary contractions by the muscles of Sherlock’s hole and he comes in spurts, filling Sherlock’s insides with the tangible evidence of the sentiment divulged by the shift in the blues of his irises illuminated by the crescent of moonlight: 

_ I love you, I have loved you for so long _ – _ stay with me forever… _

***

When Sherlock wakes up the next day entangled in blankets that smell of his brother, he is alone. The late morning sunlight streams generously from a crack in the curtains, forcing him to rub at his eyes in irritation. 

The sense of olfaction brings back the memories of the night before. He had sex with his brother. Mycroft. His now non-virgin (unvirgined?) arse feels incredibly sore. That was certainly not what he had been expecting when he had gone down here to the English coast. But, damn – he had sex. Hot sex. With a man who had been in love with him for who knows how long. Long, he deduces – in the span of years. He didn’t need to be a consulting detective to figure that out. They hadn’t even used protection. Mycroft had trusted him to be clean, as there was no way that Mycroft had been keeping track of what Sherlock had been doing since Sherrinford. At least they were both men. He almost breaks out into hysterics at the thought of a positive pregnancy test.

Wincing, he slips out of the comfortable bed and carefully makes his way to the adjoining loo. What is he to do now? He ponders the question as he freshens himself up for the day. There is no way he could drop everything in London, as Mycroft had done, and move permanently down here without arousing suspicion. And, what would he do here? As dull as London’s criminals have been over the past two years, things would be exponentially slower here. As nice as it would be, Mycroft and he couldn’t have intercourse all the time. That would be a question that he would have to figure out with more time. Maybe he could finally write his _ opus magnum _ on deduction and crime. 

He smiles slightly at the mirror. There is no need to question if he wants this with his brother. He wants it. Still wants it even after last night. And it’s definitely more than the coitus, as amazing as it was. The intensity of his own feelings pales in comparison to how Mycroft feels about him. But he knows that with time, that will change. It’s new for him, after all. He can do sentiment. Certainly for his brother, he could learn, that is. And Mycroft would be happy to teach him.

His clothes that had been strewn on the ground on the way to the bedroom last night had been collected, neatly folded and stacked on the nightstand. Next to them is another fresh stack of clothing – some of Sherlock’s garments that Mycroft had brought with him to Sussex, just in case little brother ever had need of them. He dresses quickly, before making his way downstairs. 

***

On the dining table, he finds his phone where he had left it last night. He quickly fires a text to Mrs. Hudson, informing her that he is probably going to stay in Sussex for another night. There are a few texts from a new number though.

_ Brother mine, I left your breakfast in the oven. MH _

_ I am out in the garden with Sadie, should you need me. MH _

_ You were sleeping so peacefully that I hardly had the heart to wake you up. MH _

Deftly, Sherlock saves Mycroft’s new number under his contacts before ducking down to pick up the plate of fried eggs, rashers, tomatoes and beans from the oven. He boils a kettle of water while searching around the drawers for cutlery and a teabag. Whether if it was the salty sea breeze or the sex, Sherlock finds himself fanished by the time he sits down to eat. The food disappears rapidly, washed down by an excellent blend of English breakfast tea. There is an unlabelled jar of what looks like honey sitting at the centre of the table. Likely from Mycroft’s bees. 

Intrigued and still hungry, Sherlock toasts two slices of bread from the counter. He slathers the slices in the fragrant honey and fresh butter from the fridge, before devouring both with an uncharacteristic relish – licking the sweet and sticky residue off his fingertips afterwards. Before he leaves the house to look for his brother, Sherlock quickly cleans up after himself, washing the plate, fork and knife in the sink before leaving them out to dry in the rack. He grins widely in amusement; he hasn’t washed a single dish since John had moved back into Baker Street well over a year ago.

***

He finds Mycroft in the backyard, bent over a plot of empty soil under the shade of a willow tree. Silently, he watches as Mycroft methodically digs with a shovel, places a bulb in the hole and replenishes the soil with care. A childhood memory flashes in his mind; Uncle Alder calmly toiling amongst his plants, while they had run along the cliffs, climbing in trees – hooting and hollering like wild beings. Or rather Sherlock had, while Mycroft would sit under the shade of the same great willow with a book or sketchbook in his hands, keeping one wary eye on his wayward little brother – ready at a moment’s notice to bail him out of whatever trouble he had found himself in.

“Hullo, little brother…” Mycroft turns his neck upwards. “I know this isn’t very glamorous…”

“And here I thought you didn’t like legwork.” Sherlock offers a smile. With mischief, he then adds, “I rather like this image… of you on your knees. All dirty like this.”

“Oh, what kind of monster have I created?” The mock-despair is mixed with fondness.

“A menace in the sheets.” Sherlock grins. “Thank you for breakfast. I ate it all.”

“Did you really? It really is a dream come true.” Mycroft brushes the soil off one glove against his jeans before reaching upward to pull at Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock goes down willingly and they kiss in broad daylight. When they break apart, Sherlock sighs – feeling his prick harden against the tight-tailoring of his trousers. 

“I would have blown you if you had stayed in bed.” Sherlock whispers into Mycroft’s ear before standing back up, wiping away at imaginary lint.

“Such promises!” Mycroft visibly shudders before resuming his planting. “Unfortunately, Sadie needs her walk at the crack of dawn, little brother. And, these bulbs need to be planted. The front door also needs to be repainted. I’ve been putting it off, but I should really do it before November is upon us.”

“You could hire someone to do it…” 

“I could, but I rather like the independence of doing things myself. So… Sherlock… what are your plans for today?” There is a hint of nervousness in his brother’s voice; it is obvious that he wants Sherlock to stay even though he would never explicitly voice it. 

“I thought that I should stay for another night.”

“Brilliant.” The warmth in Mycroft’s eyes causes something to flip in Sherlock’s chest. Unable to resist, Sherlock swoops down to kiss his brother again. 

***

Sadie walks up to him with a stick in her mouth. Her tail waves frantically. Sherlock smiles at the collie, letting his glove-clad hands run through her wellkept fur. He wouldn’t be surprised at all if Mycroft spent a decent amount of time brushing out the collie’s long luxurious fur regularly. Sherlock loves dogs; he had always wanted one of his own. But alas, Father had been allergic. And in his adulthood, with his cases, odd hours and eccentric habits – it had never seemed quite right to bring a dog home. 

He takes the stick and flings it as far as he could make it fly. The collie zooms across the grass in the yard, retrieving the toy in one smooth motion before running back. This is a perfect solution. Sherlock thinks. Sadie being Mycroft’s dog, but he will visit Mycroft frequently – maybe every week if he could. 

“Don’t you miss it?” Sherlock asks when Mycroft appears beside him. “The scheming, the plotting – the power?”

“Surprisingly… no.” Mycroft admits. “With power, little brother, comes great responsibility.” Then he says seriously, “If it wasn’t for Sherrinford, I would have worked myself into an early grave. And, nor do I think I would have gotten what I’ve wanted for a long time.” He gives Sherlock a meaningful gaze. “I wouldn’t have dared.”

Sherlock flings the branch again. “I would have eventually figured it out, Mycroft…”

“Maybe.” Mycroft smiles slightly, “But I let you see it. I became quite adept at hiding it… I had to. Too dangerous otherwise… for the both of us.”

“Why here?” 

“You mentioned wanting to be an apiarist at some point in your life. And then, I remembered Uncle Alder’s cottage. I had inherited it when he passed of cancer almost a decade ago. And, it seemed like a good plan. Keeping bees, tending flowers. There are still little projects I play around with online though if my intellect needs exercising. I still see the ghosts of our childhood here, Sherlock. They were happy days, I thought.”

“I thought they were too.” Sherlock leans into Mycroft when a strong arm encircles his slender waist. “Show me the bees, brother.” He requests. 

“Ah, brother – if I showed you all the treasures, you wouldn’t come back.” 

“Nonsense. I would come back for Sadie alone. And the honey. It is to die for.”

There is something vulnerable in Mycroft’s voice, “Just that, only?”

“Silly brother, of course I would come back for you. In fact, I plan to come back every week – as long as there isn’t a case on. It’s been slow these days. I’ve only been doing Lestrade’s for the most part. You will be sick of me at the end of it all.” Sherlock warns.

“Balderdash.” Mycroft chuckles. “I will never get sick of you, dearest.”

***

Sherlock dashes up the stairs, with his brother following close behind. They are both breathing hard. _ Just a little further _… Before he could make it into the bedroom, Mycroft lunges and pins him against the wall. 

“Ha. Got you. Little brother.” Mycroft pants.

“I was so close…”

“That doesn’t matter.” A wolfish grin graces his brother’s face. “So what is my reward?”

“Mmm… I don’t know, Mycroft – what do you want?”

“I think…” Mycroft leans forward, catching Sherlock’s lips in an adoring kiss. Sherlock can taste the apple crumble and ice cream that had been their dessert, with a hint of the fine whiskey that had accompanied their dinner. “I will cash it in for that blow job you mentioned earlier.”

“That’s a lot of dessert for one day.” Sherlock smirks while patting the flat planes of his abdomen. “I don’t know if I have enough room for it all…”

“Get down on your knees, you menace.” A fond twinkle in Mycroft’s irises accompanies the Icemanish demand. 

“So demanding…” Sherlock rolls his eyes as they switch spots, allowing Mycroft’s back to face the wall. Leaning forward, he allows their lips to meet again, before he places his palm against Mycroft’s shirt-clad chest. Slowly, he gracefully sinks onto his knees, keeping his palm upon and allowing his face to brush upon Mycroft’s attire, savouring every hitch in his brother’s breathing on his way down. His hands work rapidly on Mycroft’s belt and fly, freeing his generous prick from its confines. Grasping the base of Mycroft’s already hard cock with one hand, Sherlock guides the tip into his mouth.

“God.” Mycroft sighs when Sherlock swirls his tongue against his frenulum. “You look fantastic on your knees with my cock between your lovely lips.”

Spurred on by this compliment, Sherlock works more of the delectable prick into his mouth, while caressing his brother’s fuzz-covered balls with his free hand. He bobs his head, sliding the shaft up and down in his oral cavity, before gagging slightly when the glans brushes against the back of his throat. When Mycroft grabs some of Sherlock’s hair with one of his hands, Sherlock applies some suction, causing his brother to moan loudly.

“I am close, brother. You don’t have to –”

Oh yes, he has to. Sherlock wouldn’t be Sherlock if he didn’t finish this. Cunningly, he slides one hand against his brother’s perineum, letting a finger graze suggestively against Mycroft’s hole. His brother grunts what sounds like a profanity and ejaculates into Sherlock’s willing mouth.

“Damn, brother – was that a –”

“Shush.” Mycroft slumps against Sherlock when he finally stands up. “Let me –”

“I am close too.” Sherlock informs when Mycroft frees Sherlock’s cock from the trousers.

A few strokes from Mycroft’s skilled hand causes Sherlock to squirt his own release, splattering both of their shirts with cum. They both pant against each other, before finally making their way into the bedroom.

***

“I wish you weren’t leaving today.” 

Mycroft speaks after replacing one of the frames from one of the Langstroth hives, amidst the buzzing of bees.

“I will be back soon.” Sherlock reassures, while watching Sadie – who is hiding behind the willow tree, wary of the bees swarming around the hives. “Is there anything you want from London?”

“Maybe a good Chinese? Or Indian takeout? Thai would be okay too. The variety of food is rather sparse here. We can just reheat it when you arrive.”

“Done.”

Sherlock watches as Mycroft uses a knife to cut off a chunk of honeycomb laden with honey and places it on a plate. They’ve spent three days together; the time has flown by so quickly. He is already dreading the goodbye between them. The honeymoon stage of a relationship. He muses. Everything is exciting and new – even painting a sodding door with his big brother had been fun – flicking bright blue paint against each other.

His brother finally replaces the cover of the hive, while Sherlock watches with fascination as a fuzzy bee lands on one of his wrists and crawls up his sleeve with her little appendages. A typical hive had 80 000 bees including the queen. Sherlock recalls. Approximately 50 000 of them would be workers like this one. Working in tandem for the good of the hive. Fascinating creatures indeed. He walks a few metres away from the box-shaped hives before shedding Mycroft’s spare beekeeping suit off his person.

*** 

Sadie bounds towards Sherlock, licking at his gloves.

“I will miss you too.” 

Sadie barks. 

“Look after him, won’t you? Keep him out of trouble.”

She tosses her elegant head, as if to say_ of course! _

Sherlock smiles brightly when he sees his brother approach him. Mycroft presses the ziplocked honeycomb into his hand. “A little treat to make your week sweeter.”

“Thank you, brother mine.”

“I won’t walk with you to the station.” Sherlock could feel Mycroft’s breath against his face when he leans forward. Before he could feel disappointed, his brother whispers huskily in his ear. “I wanted to kiss you goodbye.”

This kiss is different than the other ones they had shared. Mycroft gently guides Sherlock’s face with his leather-clad hand against one cheek. It is bittersweet. So tender that it physically aches somewhere deep within Sherlock.

“Goodbye, dearest mine.” Mycroft breathes when they finally break apart. 

“I will see you in a few days.” Sherlock shares a more chaste kiss. The simplest of pecks. “And we will text.”

“You better.” It is almost threatening.

And finally Sherlock tears himself away, with one last fond look behind him. 

**~FIN~**


End file.
